


Life Goes On, However Unlikely That Seemed A Minute Ago

by Rumpleteazer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Background Relationships, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Fainting, Fluff, Gen, Missing Scene, No Plot/Plotless, Slash if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 17:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18145418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumpleteazer/pseuds/Rumpleteazer
Summary: Mr. Young’s car vanished in the distance in pursuit of the retreating Antichrist (and friends), leaving a stunned and rather strange group of people and person-shaped beings frozen in its wake.





	Life Goes On, However Unlikely That Seemed A Minute Ago

**Author's Note:**

> This was mainly an attempt to get my headcanon concerning how Aziraphale and Crowley came to be sitting in the middle of the air base drinking wine on to “paper” and out of my head. My friend encouraged me to post it, so I edited it to a nice 666 words to feel better about posting something so short. Rated T for alcohol.

Mr. Young’s car vanished in the distance in pursuit of the retreating Antichrist (and friends), leaving a stunned and rather strange group of people and person-shaped beings frozen in its wake.

What eventually broke the silent tableau was the sound of a tire iron hitting tarmac. This was the only warning Aziraphale got before Crowley collapsed into him. Aziraphale barely suppressed a squawk of surprise, his flaming sword joining the tire iron forgotten on the ground as his arms suddenly found themselves otherwise occupied.

Unfortunately, drained as he was, the only way to keep from overbalancing was to lower himself and Crowley to the ground in a manner that hopefully implied he meant to all along. Aziraphale was not panicking; that was Crowley’s thing. He calmly checked Crowley over with his grace, confirming Crowley was alive, then set about arranging him somewhat comfortably in his lap.

The slight commotion had broken the spell [1] on the other four.

“Is he all right?” asked Madame Tracy, the first to collect herself.

Aziraphale started, having forgotten anyone else was present. “Er, he’s not hurt,” he replied, making a show of checking for a pulse he knew wouldn’t be there and never was. “I believe he’s fainted.”

“Poor dear,” said Madame Tracy, speaking over Shadwell’s mumbling about southern pansies.

“It’s been quite a day,” added Anathema. Whether she was holding up Newt or vice versa was unclear even to them.

The other humans murmured in affirmation. They didn’t exactly remember what made it “quite a day,” but nevertheless felt certain it had been.

“Do you need any help with him?” Madame Tracy asked after a moment, slightly embarrassed she didn’t ask sooner.

“Hm?” said Aziraphale, distractedly stroking Crowley’s hair and, for the second time in his existence, weighing the benefits of being unconscious himself. “Oh, er, no, thank you. I’m sure he’ll be fine in a minute.” As if remembering something, he glanced up at the humans. They looked almost as lost as he felt. “You should go home and get some rest,” and if there was a hint of Suggestion in his voice when he said it, he thought it would be forgiven.

Aziraphale returned his gaze to Crowley as soon as he was sure the humans had taken his Suggestion and were wandering toward their respective homes. He sighed, and ultimately decided the middle of an airfield wasn’t the best place to try sleeping for the first time.

No, what he needed was a very strong drink.

Aziraphale conjured a bottle of alcohol, not really caring what kind, miracled it open, and took a long swig. Then, almost as an afterthought, he held it under Crowley’s nose. Heav…Somewhere knew Crowley deserved the break, but he was putting Aziraphale’s legs to sleep.

Crowley stirred almost immediately. His eyes fluttered open, then closed again with a groan.

Aziraphale took another drink.

“…Angel?”

“Yes, dear.” Aziraphale absently patted Crowley’s hand. “Are you…?”

“Ngk.” Crowley brought the hand to his face and squinted at it incredulously. “We’re alive, then?”

“Mm.”

“The Apocalypse…” Crowley trailed off into a hiss.

“Didn’t.”

“Right.” Crowley let his hand drop and sat up slowly, rubbing his temples.

Aziraphale produced a familiar pair of sunglasses from thin air and wordlessly handed them over.

Crowley put them on gratefully, and stared blankly into space. A million thoughts swarmed his mind, none of them coherent.

Aziraphale offered him the miraculously refilled bottle in understanding.

Crowley accepted, drained half the bottle, paused for a breath he didn’t need, considered his situation, then took another swig.

Now wearing a lopsided and sheepish sort of half-smile Crowley passed the bottle [2] back to Aziraphale, finally turning to look him in the eyes.

One of them began laughing. It didn’t matter who, as the other joined quickly after. Their laughter was disbelieving and joyous, hopeful and relieved, and, though they didn’t know why, everyone within a kilometer radius felt the ghosts of those same emotions.

Thus began the rest of their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Figuratively speaking, though one can never be too sure, considering…well, considering.
> 
> [2] At this point, the bottle had given up all pretense of ever emptying.


End file.
